The Photographer
by theTurtleChelle
Summary: Hank McBury is a photographer who has covered the Hunger Games story since the First Games. He has seen it all, sacrifices, weeping, despair. He has a diary in which he writes down all those worthy moments, this is a peek in his diary.
1. Intro

They call me Ol' Hank, but my real name is Hank McBury, and I am the photographer for the Vogue magazine back in the Capitol. They have me cover the Hunger Games story every time. So I''ve seen them all, from the 1st Game to the most recent one.

Seems all the other photographers can't bear it, all the loss and despair. So they have me go out and do it every time. "Let Ol' Hank do it. He's done it before." or "Ol' Hank can handle it, he covered the story last time." are just some of the excuses they spit out in order to avoid being sent to the districts.

I have to admit, I quite like it in the districts. District 11 being my favorite, what with all the wheat fields, and the ripe fruits. It is always overflowing with mouth-watering fruity fragrances, and the soft yet rich smell of the golden grains. The peacekeepers often smuggle us some fruit, trying to get us not to take photos of any skinny children, and concentrate on the strong sturdy ones.

Even when I am asleep, the despairing looks of the family and friends of the chosen boy or girl haunts me through nightmares. They look at me, not with hatred, but with a kind of desperation which stabs me like a knife every time.

In my life, I have seen one to many stories of love and sacrifice. Yet, it still gets to me. I have a sort of diary, where I write down all those touching moments. I hope, one day, those stories will help set the districts free from the clutches of the Capitol. But for now, I'll just keep writing.


	2. Please don't let my sister die

The Ninth Hunger Games: District 1

Today, it was damp in District 1. Florence said it would rain, but it didn't. It just stayed really really wet.

When I had hauled my tripod onto the stage, the square was already filled with people. They all look weary, and a baby kept crying somewhere in the crowd.

When the 5 minute call was given, Gazelle Yip staggered on stage in ridiculously high heels. "Good Morning gentlemen, are we ready?" That kindergarten-teacher voice gets to me every time.

The Reapings began at about 2:00. Children in the age limit stood in rows on the right, while people out of the age limit gathered together in a big group towards the left.

"Panem has come a long way..." The fat mayor of District 1 goes through all the standard speeches hurriedly, as if he can't wait to get inside and out of the dampness.

_-Snap-_

I take a photo of the mayor leaving the stage. Then Gazelle Yip scurries on, a big smile plastered across her face.

"The girl tribute of District 1 shall be..."

_-Snap-_

I catch a photo of Gazelle's long fingernails pinching out a strip of paper.

"Fuchsia Hale."

Camera's start clicking away frantically, all trying to get that first look of sheer horror cross the new tributes face.

_-Snap-_

I see her walking numbly through the crowd. Her silvery blonde hair is in a tight bun, and the sunlight is bouncing off all those small diamonds on her dress. If it weren't for the situation, she would have seemed like a princess.

_-Snap-_

"This one's pretty, surely gonna start a buzz in the Capitol." Other photographers are whispering among themselves. I don't waste my time gossiping.

_-Snap-_

An old woman is clinging onto the girls shoulders and weeping. I make sure to get a clear photo of those tears on the old woman's face, mirrored on the new tribute. That one was not a Career, I was sure of it.

After all the commotion on the girl tribute was over, Gazelle reacher her hand in again. "And the boy tribute is..."

The gossiping photographers get themselves ready again for the next tribute.

"Yves Grandeur."

_-Click-Click-Click-_

I get a good photo of the boy tribute punching his fist in the air. He's a Career, ofcourse.

Crowds of big sturdy boys come over and pat him on the back, or punch his fist. Seems like the Career community will all be rooting for him.

_-Snap-_

His mother is sobbing hysterically and pulling his elbow. He looks annoyed as he jerks away, and his mother sinks to the ground.

_-Snap-_

This is probably the last time either of the tributes will get to see their parents.

By the time the Reapings are done, all of the camera crews clothes are damp from the wetness. I lug my tripod back onto the train, and head for my room.

On my way there I passed several people on waiting chairs. They must be waiting to say their final goodbyes to the tributes. One little blonde girl is looking at me with pleading eyes, I imagine her saying "Please, please don't let my sister die!".

In my mind, I say _-Click-_.


	3. Guest appearance: Katnisses Grandfather

The 9th Hunger Games: District 12

People here are especially filthy, maybe it's all the coal dust in the air.

Though the weather is fine, with the sun shining and all, there is this cold stiffness which hangs in the air like floating mist. The square is buzzing with people, but even the noise can't drown out the sound of beating hearts.

The people here aren't all one skin color, like in the other districts. Pale skinned blonde haired blue-eyed people hover in and out of the olive toned, grey eyed ones.

Sconda Trinket, the "escort", is already on stage, fluffing out her hair. It is a weird shade of blue, pastel blue, but with that neon effect.

When the reapings start, all the children in the age limit file into lines, while the ones not in the age limit bunch together at the foot of the stage.

_-Snap-Snap-_

I take a photo of a young man, olive toned with piercing gray eyes, singing softly to himself. "_Deep in the meadow, under the willow. A bed of grass, a soft green pillow…" _

_-Snap-_

He catches me looking, and stops singing abruptly.

My tripod is ready for the signal, and the mayor scrambles on stage.

After the usual long talk, he lets Sconda proceed.

"The girl tribute is…"

As usual, photographers tense up, finger resting stiffly on the button. I sigh, in the next second, one family is going to become shattered beyond repair.

"Gertrude Mellark."

_-Snap-Click-Click-Snap_

Flashing lights blind the audience as cameras start clicking away. My finger moves automatically, like a machine: press down, lift, change positions, press down.

I see a blonde haired girl shakily making her way towards the stage. A boy, a little younger, also blonde, is screaming uncontrollably. Peacekeepers weave their way through the crowd, and the boy hushes before they get to beat him to a pulp.

Then everybody falls quiet again, waiting for the next name to be called.

_-Snap-_

Sconda is pulling out another slip of paper, her hands tattooed in golden swirls. I make sure to get a close-up of the tattoo; it'll surely cause a frenzy in the Capitol. Maybe even start a new trend.

"The boy tribute of District Twelve is Damian Meadow."

_-Snap-Snap-Snap-_

Another one of the blondies stands up warily. The olive ones have been lucky this time. The boy walks steadily, though, almost with a determination. I like that one.

"Looks like District twelve has got a chance this time."

"He surely will team up with the Careers."

I can't wait to get away from all the gossip, so I head towards the train immediately.

I walk past the singing olive-skinned boy. He is staring at me reproachfully, like it's my fault. Those grey eyes are unforgiving.

"Everdeen boy! Get back here."

The boy gives me one last cutting glance, and speeds off in another direction.

Those grey eyes will haunt me forever, and so will that melody.

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow. A bed of grass, a soft green pillow… _


	4. Guest appearance: Niagra Falls

The 12th Hunger Games Promo Ad

They really did a good job on the arena this year. When they took me to the arena to take photos for the promo ad, I was mesmerized.

At first I was just relieved we wouldn't be flying out to Eskimosia, where the previous Hunger Games had taken place. That was the worst year, in my opinion. For every photo I took, I was sure one of my toes would get frostbite and fall off.

This year, however, was different. They located it in a place near to District 1, the Mooncliff Falls. I remember, from our History classes, Mooncliff Falls was once called Niagra Falls.

For the arena, they had to destroy the historical preserve "Canada Town". Nobody really ever went there, so it was hushed up by the media. My father took me there once, when I was a little kid.

The Mooncliff Falls is beautiful. The silver water flowing down from so high up it looks like it is the Milky Way pouring right out of the sky. Green bushes with dots of purple flowers surrounding the flowing water like a beautiful halo. The beating streams would occasionally rip a purple flower from its stem and send its petals swirling and cascading down into the mist below.

Those people who lived in Canada Town were very lucky, I wonder why they all decided to move into the Capitol?

I can see snowcapped mountains and tinkling streams in the distance, and I can't help but feel peaceful.

But how can I? This is a killing arena for gods sake!

How can someplace so tranquil be the place of slaughter?

That's what they do, the Capitol. They can turn the Mooncliff Falls into a butcher house, they can turn an innocent fourteen year old "Daddy's Girl" into a deadly killer, all in an instant.

They bring out the bad in everything.

I look down at the soft green grass quivering at my feet, and I see it splattered in blood. The tinkling of the stream is no longer laughter, but sobs of despair.

The Mooncliff Falls is angry as it swipes the petals mercilessly from its stems and sends them drowning into the endless darkness, just like the Capitol.

After the Games, this will never be just Mooncliff Falls. It will forever be a dark red dot on the maps, an old Hunger Games arena.

Citizens from the Capitol will come and reenact scenes, take photos, maybe even buy "Spirit Paper", write to their favorite tribute and burn the paper on the spot where he or she got killed.

But its all just a "game" to them, something or someone to obsess over.

Soon, they will forget about them and this place. Their temporary sorrow will vanish as new laughter fills up the holes.

But _they_ can't forget, _they_ will never forget.

And Mooncliff Falls will never make others feel peaceful again.


End file.
